


where is my judgment fled

by cori_the_bloody



Category: Cormoran Strike Series - Robert Galbraith
Genre: Book 5, F/M, Set during the as yet unreleased, Trapped In A Closet, Unresolved Tension, Vignette, basically written to see if i could emulate the style of narration
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-19
Updated: 2020-02-19
Packaged: 2021-02-19 00:41:12
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 916
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22802509
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cori_the_bloody/pseuds/cori_the_bloody
Summary: Robin knows that depriving yourself of one sense heightens all others only if given a significant amount of time for the dependency to be established, but that doesn’t stop her from wondering if Strike might be able to hear the pounding of her yearning heart in the unnervingly dark room.
Relationships: Robin Ellacott/Cormoran Strike
Comments: 14
Kudos: 48





	where is my judgment fled

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you, Bethany, for all your insights. You make every story better.
> 
> We all know the levels of pining are currently unbearable, but I wouldn't put it past Robert Galbraith to drag it along for yet another book. And, to be fair, there are still plenty of emotional obstacles our duo needs to believably hurdle before they'd profess their undying love. So, yeah, here's my homage to their unresolved tension.

_Matthew wouldn’t like this._

The thought catches Robin in the gut like a physical blow, more shocking for the fact that she hasn’t thought about Matthew once in several weeks’ time. She supposes, however, that it makes a certain sense, him floating to the top of her conscious thought now that she’s crowded into a narrow office-supply closet with Cormoran.

Since the only light is whatever pale flashlight glow slips in through the door sitting crookedly in its frame, Robin cannot see Strike’s curiosity at the low gasp she’d emitted, rather feels his interest as keenly as if it were a physical probe. She tries to relax her tense shoulders and project an air of unchallenged professionalism at him in response.

The trouble is, she feels the very picture of improper intrigue at the moment. The last time they’d been close like this—Strike had had to hoist her up onto the copy machine and step between her legs in order to make enough room to close the door behind them—had been the hug they’d shared on the stairs at her wedding reception.

_Don’t think about that_ , she tells herself sternly.

Except her mind lingers.

It lingers traitorously on the whole-bodied sense of security she’d felt the moment his arms had encircled her. It lingers on the comfortingly familiar way the musk of cigarette smoke had clung to his skin. It lingers on the gooseflesh his stubbly jaw being cradled against her shoulder had raised across her back.

She feels the ghost of the sensation now and her breath catches.

Strike sways forward, breaching the almost nonexistent pocket of neutral space between them and, for a feverish moment, Robin thinks he’s about to whisper in her ear.

Either he never intends to or thinks better of it, but he tenses mid-movement, his cheek level with hers and his unsteady breath teasing the tendrils of humidity-frazzled hair curling around her ear.

Appallingly, she finds herself tipping forward on the edge of the copier, having unthinkingly responded in kind to Strike’s advance and subsequently lost her precarious balance. She hasn’t the control necessary to stop herself tumbling over, so she catches hold of his shoulders. At the same time, he grasps her about the waist, anchoring her in place.

The copy machine gives a faint groan in protest anyway, and they both freeze, listening for any hint that the people outside have been alerted to their presence.

The sound of a drawer clanging shut resounds through the office. Robin flexes her fingers nervously about Strike’s broad shoulders, and a fingernail she’d torn in her haste to close those very drawers catches on the damp wool of his coat. In response, he smooths his thumb up along her waist and then back down again.

She knows that depriving yourself of one sense heightens all others only if given a significant amount of time for the dependency to be established, but that doesn’t stop her from wondering if Strike might be able to hear the pounding of her yearning heart in the unnervingly dark room.

As if in answer, he turns his head, pressing forehead into temple.

He can surely _feel_ the racing of her pulse now, if he hadn’t heard it already.

“Cormoran—?” Robin’s broken question is soundless, but she’d place bets he hears it anyway. Still, he doesn’t acknowledge it; rather, continues resting against her.

She squeezes her eyes closed. If he’s not going to issue any direct kind of invitation, perhaps she should. She imagines what she’d say, even. _Is the door really open or am I just hoping it’s that way because I want it to be?_

What if the answer is no, though? The mortification she’d feel to know she’d been reading far too much into every fond word and moment of easy reliance, to know she is the inexperienced and fumbling amateur she fears herself to be…she doesn’t know how either of them would handle that.

And, for that matter, what if the answer is yes? She feels an irrational stab of anger that he might be messing her around without any intention of progressing the relationship to something more, that he might be keeping her in reserve while he envisions the future he’d clearly always wanted with Charlotte.

_Oh, Rob, all’s fair_ , the imaginary Matthew voice she can’t seem to fully shake says. _That’s how you thought of him while you were with me, isn’t it?_

Suddenly, Robin becomes aware of the silence pressing in around them, eerie for how it contrasts with the overwhelming noise in her head. “Do you hear that?”

Strike listens for a moment, then pulls up straight. “No footsteps.”

“I believe we’re alone again.”

“Wait where you are a moment,” he says. “Gonna pop my head out and make sure.”

It takes some finagling for him to rotate on the spot and face the door, during which Robin’s heart slows to a healthier rate. It still gives a stubborn squeeze at the image of Strike easing open the closet door, though.

Robin wants desperately for Matthew to be wrong—that she’d ever thought of Strike in those terms, that she’d been favoring him all those years she’d hid in the convenience of her long-standing relationship—but her heart’s insistence on Cormoran makes it impossible for her to entertain reasonable doubt.

Unable to meet Strike’s eye for fear of what he might read in her expression, she slides off the copy machine and steps into the office.


End file.
